


Reaching for the Skies

by Zauzat



Category: Cabin Pressure, Thick of It (UK)
Genre: Crossover, Gen, the meaning of success
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-12
Updated: 2012-09-12
Packaged: 2017-11-14 02:44:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/510475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zauzat/pseuds/Zauzat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martin runs into Douglas's older brother Peter Mannion, the Secretary of State for Social Affairs. What follows challenges Martin's understanding of what it means to be a success.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reaching for the Skies

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the Cabin Pressure prompt meme.

Martin pulled up in his van outside Douglas's house. He wasn't really in the mood to deal with his co-pilot but he needed the paperwork that Douglas had walked off with after landing that morning. If he picked it up now, he could finish it off tomorrow morning before their flight, because god knows, Douglas wouldn't be turning up more than two minutes before take-off. 

He glanced down at his torn jeans and dirty t-shirt. He'd just finished one removals job and he had another in an hour. He wasn't looking at his best but then, it wasn't as if Douglas was much impressed by Martin's dignity after two years of flying together. He trotted up the steps and pressed the doorbell. Leaning against the doorframe he listened as familiar heavy footsteps came down the corridor.

"Can I help you?"

An older man in a dark suit stood in the doorway, peering grumpily at him. He looked vaguely like Douglas, he looked vaguely familiar... but Martin was sure he'd never met him before.

"Oh. Um.... sorry... I'm looking for Douglas."

"He'd out, buying some food I think. And you are?"

"Just collecting some papers, I work with him at MJN," said Martin, suddenly aware of how scruffy he looked.

"Come in and wait if you want."

The other man turned on his heel and stomped back in the direction of where Martin knew the kitchen to be. Martin followed. He'd been hoping for a cup of tea between his removal jobs, as much as he'd been intending to collect the errant paperwork. And now he was thoroughly curious. This man had to be Douglas's brother, mentioned just once when telling the tale of the stag night before his first marriage. For all the first officer was so loquacious, he almost never talked about his past or his family. 

He walked into the kitchen, to find the other man slumped down at the table, staring glumly at a cup of tea. "Kettle's over there," he said, waving vaguely at the counter. "Help yourself. There's no alcohol, more's the pity."

Martin made himself a mug of tea and then lent back against the counter, looking curiously at the other man. He had the same heavy-set frame as Douglas, the same abundant waves of thick hair, although his was slate grey where Douglas's was (debatably with the help of tinted shampoo) still clinging to a mix of grey and soft brown. And where Douglas's default expression was one of detached amusement, his brother just looked grumpy. 

"I'm Martin, by the way. Martin Crieff." 

The other man looked up in surprise, as if he forgotten Martin was there. "Yes, right, pleased to meet you. And what do you do at MJN? Groundsman? Mechanic?"

Martin suddenly wished desperately for his uniform and the little bit of authority that it lent to him. "No, certainly not. I'm the ca--" He froze. What if Douglas was doing a Helena with his older brother? Not that Martin should care, but still. He knew how complicated family relations could be. "I'm Douglas's co-pilot. We fly together."

He could feel the skeptical glance of the brother as he took in Martin's shabby clothing. "I have a second job," he said defensively. "Doing removals. Just on the side. Recession and all. You know how it is." Desperate to change the subject, he ploughed on bluntly. "So anyway, who are you?" 

"I'm Peter Mannion." There was the kind of meaningful pause that made it clear Peter expected the name to mean something to Martin. It transmuted seamlessly into a sort of utterly awkward pause as it became clear Martin had no idea who he was. 

"I'm the MP for the greater Fitton area," continued Peter slowly, as if waiting for a penny to drop. 

Martin shrugged apologetically. "I don't really follow politics."

"I'm in the cabinet? Does that ring any bells? Have you even noticed there's been a bloody change of government? I'm the Secretary of fucking State for Social Affairs!"

"Oh! Oh right." Martin really didn't have time to follow the news, what with two jobs and no television in his attic, but Arthur always collected any newspapers and magazines left behind by customers and stacked them in the portacabin, to provide reading material for those long days on stand-by. Martin had glanced at the front page of yesterday's Sun after finishing up his paperwork this morning. "I knew I recognised you. You were the one drinking champagne in the middle of the day." 

Peter dropped his forehead onto his folded hands. "Great. Just fucking great. Even my own constituents don't know who I am until I bring out the bubbly and live up to every Tory stereotype they ever had."

"I did vote," said Martin at last, trying to offer an awkward olive branch. "Although, to be honest, I did vote Lib-Dem. She seemed like a nice lady who talked sense, I'm sorry she lost."

Peter twisted his head to glare at Martin out of one eye. "Not... not that I'm sorry you won... that's not what I... I mean... I do think the Tories are tossers, but not.... I'm sure you're... you know... when you're not on the booze at lunchtime, that is.... okay, I'm shutting up now." Martin gulped down a large mouthful of hot tea, spluttering as it burnt the inside of his mouth. 

"Thank you for that insightful political analysis." Peter continued to rest his head on the table, apparently quietly stewing in his misery.

"What... er... what are you doing here anyway?" asked Martin eventually. "Shouldn't you be... I don't know... running the country?"

"Oh we don't run anything," said Peter, sounding tired and cynical. "We just get bossed about by jumped up civil servants and egomaniacal spin doctors. Anyway, I'm hiding. The press is baying for my blood because I was swigging bubbly during the working day. My wife is furious because all she got for our thirtieth wedding anniversary as a bloody half-bottle of Tesco champagne and ten minutes of my time between meetings. My staff all hate me because I don't know what a bloody app is and I despise the lot of them, they're barely out of nappies and they want to run the world! Our coalition partners are a bunch of power-crazed, limp-wristed muesli munchers, dragging us under like eco-friendly quick-sand. And our first policy launch was disastrous. So I'm hiding out in my baby brother's kitchen while trying to decide whether to drink myself to death or take the quick way out and just slit my wrists with a tea spoon."

"Gosh," said Martin at last. "When you put it like that, you almost make me like my own job."

"You fly planes! What's not to like?" Peter lent back in his chair and looked at Martin, as if really seeing him for the first time. "You must be the MJN captain. Huh. No wonder Douglas gets into a bit of snit about having to report to you. Not that we're not all for youth opportunities and all that crap. It just gets you down a bit, eventually, being bossed about by kiddies who weren't yet born when we were at university. Still, when you fly, as captain you are absolutely in charge, right? Your word is the word of god? I do envy you that."

"I am technically the supreme commander of my vessel," said Martin slowly. He was tempted to boast about his importance but something about Peter's defeated look steered him towards the truth. "But in reality there's virtually no chance of getting Douglas to obey a direct order from me or even show much in the way of respect."

Peter threw his head back and laughed, a deep booming laugh that seemed to shake right through him. "That I can believe. Trust me, being his elder brother didn't get me any respect either." He grinned at Martin and for the first time Martin saw a glimpse of the easy charm that had presumably made Peter such a successful politician. 

"Why the different surnames?" asked Martin curiously.

"Oh, just one of those things," replied Peter. "Our father died when Douglas was four and I was nine. Mum remarried soon after and our step-dad was a good man, I've no complaints there. He wanted to formally adopt us and Douglas agreed, he couldn't really remember our dad. But it felt disloyal to me, as if we were somehow pretending our real father had never existed. So Douglas became a Richardson and I remained a Mannion." 

"You must be fairly close though, to be hiding out here. Sounds better than anything I ever managed with my brother and sister," said Martin wistfully. 

"Oh Douglas is a smarmy bastard, utterly focused on his own best interests. I'd trust him with my life, but not with my wallet. But then he'd doubtless say the same of me. At least when we're with each other, we don't have to pretend." 

Martin looked at Peter curiously, wondering what Douglas had to pretend about, given how effortlessly successful his life seemed to Martin. Although maybe the three divorces, the first officer position, the MJN job... And no one could call being a member of the cabinet of Great Britain and Northern Ireland a failure, and yet here Peter was, hiding away in his brother's kitchen, trying to drown himself in a cup of tepid tea. Maybe being a success was rather more complex than Martin normally thought, staring out at the rest of the world from under the weight of his own troubles.

"So you're having to work two jobs? How did that come about?" Peter's deep brown eyes were now fully focused on Martin, as if he was the only person in the world and his story was of vital importance to the national interest. Martin could recognise it as the technique of a gifted career politician but that knowledge still didn't stop the warmth spreading through his chest at the thought that his story really _mattered_ to this charming, powerful man. 

He found his life history tumbling out of his mouth, the discouragement from his family, the rejection by all the flights schools, the six failures at his CPL, the string of menial jobs needed to pay off the debts from his ongoing studies. And finally the qualification, followed by more rejections for lack of experience, at last flying for MJN for free and lugging around furniture in his dad's old van to pay for his attic flat and his baked potatoes with cheese. 

He finally managed to get himself to shut up, horrified at how much personal, shameful detail he'd just confided to a virtual stranger. Peter, with his public school and Oxbridge background, his automatic place in the old boys' network born to power, was hardly likely to sympathise with Martin's petty struggles. He waited awkwardly for the secretary of state to dismiss him as an utter loser or at best give him some patronising words of encouragement for having tried his best despite everything. 

Instead Peter looked thoughtful. "You know, it's surprisingly easy to lose sight of the bigger picture in this job," he said at last. "You sit in government and feel so fucking useless, despite supposedly having all this power. And you end up despising the electorate, a bunch of whining losers sitting on their fat arses waiting for government handouts. But that's not what it's about. It ought to be about us making it easier for people like you to get on with pursuing your dreams."

Peter stared unfocused into the distance, his fingers drumming on the table. "Yes, that might work. You've given me some great ideas, Martin. You're a real inspiration. I can see why Douglas admires you."

"What? Douglas what? Why--" But Martin had lost the politician's attention. Peter was barking into his Blackberry, demanding that a car be sent and rounding up his underlings for a meeting. Martin, realising that it was time to leave for his next removals job, waved goodbye to him and slipped unnoticed out of the front door.

* * * * *

"Well Martin, you have been making waves. Did you see the news last night?" Douglas walked into the portacabin with his classic smirk firmly in place, the one that meant he knew something that his captain didn't. 

Martin sighed with exaggerated patience. He'd long since stopped being unnerved by Douglas's posturing. "No I didn't. I read a chapter of my book and then had an early night, being a responsible pilot, given that we are flying all the way to Lima this morning."

"Have a look, you're the best bit of the entire speech." Douglas handed Martin his smartphone, a BBC news video showing on the screen. Peter Mannion was frozen in place at a lectern, a banner proclaiming _Reaching for the Skies_ tacked behind him. Leaning over Martin's shoulder, Douglas pressed play.

Peter's plummy tones sounded out. It was nearly a month since Martin had met him in Douglas's kitchen and he'd mostly put the embarrassment of the encounter behind him. 

_...met a young man who embodies everything our government stands for. Lacking support from his family, he applied to aviation schools on his own. Turned down by them for not having the right results, he took on a string of menial jobs and sat the exams himself..._

"Is he talking about me?" whispered Martin in astonishment.

"Shhh, you'll miss the good bits," said Douglas.

_...didn't succeed the first time, or the second, or the third. But he did succeed. Qualified as a commercial pilot, he found he couldn't get a job without flying experience. So he offered to fly for free to build up his hours while doing removal jobs in his spare time to pay the bills. He's well on his way to realising his dreams and he did it with guts and gumption and sheer hard work._

_Our government is not in power to hand the tax-payers' hard-earned money over to those who want to take benefits without working for them. Our government is not in power to boss and nanny those who are already working hard. We exist to help those like this young pilot, to make the path to realising their individual dreams that much easier._

_The changes to the benefit system being introduced by the Department of Social Affairs and Citizenship are changes that will simplify, streamline and above all reward those who work. We will be the wind under the wings for those of our citizens who are Reaching for the Skies..._

Douglas tapped the pause button. "It turns into the usual political guff after that." He looked curiously across at Martin. "I don't know how you feel about being a poster-boy for the Tories' _get off your arse and do it yourself 'cos it saves us money that way and let's fuck the minimum wage while we're at it_ approach, but Peter's right. Your story is inspiring. It's real hard-earned personal success."

Martin stared at Douglas, down at the phone, back up at Douglas. The secretary of state _admired_ him? _Douglas_ admired him? They thought of his life as a success story? "You really... um... you know... you really mean....?"

Douglas smiled, the same easy smile his brother had, the one that lived under all their layers of cynicism and charm and calculation. "I won't be saying it again in a hurry, but yes, I really mean it." He ruffled Martin's hair, ignored his captain's indignant squawk and placed Martin's captain's hat on top of his disordered curls.

"Come on, Captain. Let's get that wind under our wings and _reach for the skies_."

\- THE END -


End file.
